May 8, 2007 at 9:36 am | Filed under Y!M conversations, mr wonderful, technicolor lover, the helga manual
Mr Supervisor (rather, Mr Former Supervisor But Still A Supervisor) came up to me (of his own volition, not because I needed help) towards the end of my shift and described me as “volatile” and asked if I’ve been good. That means I flip and flop between irate and calm. Intermittently bitchy agent? More like irascible because someone’s being an idiot. Of course, volatile can also mean I’m explosive (which is a sexy way of putting it). On the other hand, it can mean I’m unstable (I think we already know that).
It’s generally not a good idea for me to have crushes on people who are physically within my reach and whom I come into contact with on a daily basis, if only because I’m a ding-a-ling who has the scandalous habit of acting upon my crushes. My theory is that it comes with my age and that when I eventually mature, I’ll (finally) develop a sense of inhibition. At least I’m crossing my fingers that I will. Maybe when I’m 22.
Which reminds me: why is there nothing monumental or defining about turning 22? It’s just like turning 8 or 14 and very much unlike turning, say, 1 (because it means I managed to not annoy my parents for 12 months, so they decided not to smother me in my sleep or to leave me in a basket outside some rich spinster’s doorstep who actually hates children and will probably do something horrible to me. Like feed me to mice or give me to the manong mambobote); or 18 (when my folks were more than happy to serve my debutante-ness upon a fluffy pink and silver platter, begging not-necessarily-eligible bachelors to whisk me off to a life of domesticity. There were no takers, though, and I blamed it on the fact that I knew jackshit about doing the laundry, making sammiches or shining black leather shoes back then. So I proceeded to skill myself in those areas of housewifery, and also, to give good head).
So I don’t know, maybe I’ll make something out of turning 22. Something that isn’t asinine or sarcastic, like most of my goals are (my 2007 Game Plan is one exception— I’m dead serious about that). One thing’s for sure: I’d like to have more Me Time this coming year. Or no, not Me Time, since I get enough of that during my daily commute to and from work; just more Quiet Time. I’d like to not find myself in a tizzy come the weekend.
Or maybe what I need is More Time. Okay, so that brings my wishlist to include two things: A Tan and More Time. Also, the complete Nancy Sinatra collection, please. There, three.
May 4, 2007 at 2:48 am | Filed under breaking up the girl
All right, it’s my birthday month. One of these days (as soon as I’m done screwing and gallivanting around town with them highschool boys— I don’t like them young and stupid, cos I’m young and stupid enough. But you know. Little boys. Cute), I’m gonna post my wishlist. I’m keeping it short this year to prepare myself for disappointment. Really, there’s only one thing I want, and that is A Tan.
Which I squatteringly achieved yesterday— a day which I shall aptly call The Day Helga Got Pwned By The Metro And The Bank And The Universe, In General— by walking the length of St. Ignatius Village to the corner of P. Tuazon in Katipunan Extension at 10 in the morning. I lack sleep and am in no mood to go into details and re-count the whole horrid experience, so I’ll document it, ECTTUS-style (aka APAC-style, hyukhyuk): I not ok. All not ok. But ok!. My mom saved the day and my ass (and my flatmates’ asses. Mammy, I love you! I’d marry you if only you weren’t married to Dada! And you wouldn’t have to deal with a 21-year old freeloader of a daughter!), but not without a string of I-told-you-so’s. All while I was standing under the sun, waiting for the village shuttle, and crying. In a race against time. Dun dun dun dun. People were looking at me funny, so I threw in a “Baby! Wag moko iwan!” line for good measure.
So I’m officially broke and will have to live on rice and soy sauce or rice and Star Margarine or leftovers found in fastfood dumpsters until next next Tuesday if I want to support my Marlboro and Starbucks habits. I’ll be mooching off my mom again until further notice, and there goes my plan of moving back into our condo this Saturday (for good). Turning 22 and in a state of destitution— how did life become this harsh? Is it because I curse too much? Drink too much? Or is it because I’m shallow? Or petty? Or just plain obese? Or is it because I incessantly Twitter and post at TMB while I’m at work? Whyyyyy? Also, if the links are funky, that’s because I’m using a proxy with a bunch of things turned off (like scripts, so my MyBlogLog and Twitter widgets don’t work, puh), for ultra-stealthy surfing.
I hate banks. If I could have it my way, I’d keep all my monies in a can hidden in the back of my closet.
Oh look, it’s almost 4am. I managed to survive the day!
May 1, 2007 at 9:59 am | Filed under technicolor lover
Over the weekend, I finally found the time to finish reading Dark Love.
And I’m so squatter, I have a steno pad.
No more issues! Just that ever-so-familiar falling-apart kind of weariness.
April 27, 2007 at 10:53 am | Filed under breaking up the girl
Going through a ridiculous bout of emo. This, I realized on my way home today, and that it’s actually been going on for quite some time now (like, since Monday).
It’s not even issueses. I think I’m just being my typical self: movie’s just started, and already I’m fastforwarding to the credits, imagining my own ending. And the journey in between, usually peppered with lots of telenovela-like scenes. And dialogues. Like “Nahihibang ka na! Dun ka sa Palawan! Kung san madaming buwaya!” and “May taning na ang buhay mo! Tara dun sa banyo! Kung san madulas!” and such.
Perhaps Prozac can stabilize my emotions. You know what would be awesome? Tanduay pills.
The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.
-House of Incest, Anais Nin
April 26, 2007 at 8:54 am | Filed under breaking up the girl, joyful girl, the helga manual
It’s the unexpected little things that will always make me happy. That, I realized yesterday early evening when I went to our building’s Starbucks (as I always do, when I have a few minutes to spare) to get my pre-shift caffeine fix. A few feet away from the counter, my barista crush looks up, flashes his very D-like braces at my direction and greets me with a “Hi, Helga.” I smile back, throw my money down and give my order. “Starting work?” Small talk, I love small talk. “Here’s your drink, Helga, see you again later,” as I leave.
Nevermind that he still spells my name as Helda.
Also, things like getting a Phase IV right on the first try (you are not Sabre-trained, you are not a travel agent— so yes, what the what is a Phase IV, right. Take my word for it: it’s complicated shit). Victory! Pwned!
And the way my direct supervisor calls all the girls in my batch “sweetheart” (I wonder what he calls the boys, then) and when he says “rock and roll” or “I’m ready to rock, are you ready to roll?” or “is that going to rock? Cos let’s roll” when I’m just about to make like a te-te-terrorist and wreak havoc on all flights from today until June 18. Of next year. Said supervisor also has very D-like braces, but then I think I think all men with braces have mouths that look like D’s.
I’m starting to answer to the name Heather. In real life. I’m not sure how I feel about this.
Today was a horrible day at work. And I survived. But just barely.
Michael: Angel bailed me out.
James: Angel?
Michael: Well, actually, Angel bailed you out.
James: Me?
Michael: Yeah, I told the police I was you.
[James gawks in disbelief]
Michael: Oh James, it’s just all in fun. And after I told them you had AIDS, they gave me my own room with a VCR and ice cream!
James: Michael, I don’t even like you! I have never liked you!
-Party Monster
Yeah, that’s basically today’s emotions.
Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 23. My first socio-political scandal will happen at the age of 35 and will include men, sushi, an African country, and lots of money. My lover is the greatest. 
